Blades of Grass and Acid Rivers
by Chasing Liquor
Summary: KotOR II. The Exile runs into some trouble on Dantooine, and it's up to Atton to bail her out. But he won't come out of it unscathed. LSF Exile/Atton, Bao-Dur friendship.


**Disclaimer**: Obsidian and Mr. Lucas own these wonderful characters. I'm just borrowing them.

**Description:** This takes place on Dantooine (after the Enclave, but before the Cave). It focuses on Atton's relationship with my LSF Exile, Prin, and on their respective friendships with Bao-Dur.

I like to think it's 25% action, 25% dark psychology, and 50% fluff. I hope that proves to be a satisfying combination.

**Warnings: **There is some graphic violence in this piece. If that bothers you, you might want to either turn back, or be prepared to skim over a few descriptions.

**A/N**: This is my first KOTOR piece. I'm not certain how it turned out, so leave me some feedback and let me know in the form of a review; I'd greatly appreciate it. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Blades of Grass and Acid Rivers**

* * *

Atton looked out over the Dantooine landscape.

Why Malak obliterated Telos, but was more precise in the havoc he wrought this planet was beyond him. To leave so much behind was almost a harsher thing. The survivors were left drifting. They scratched and clawed and prayed for tomorrow, but they were always on the cusp of that great, terrible darkness.

He sighed when his rusted companion spoke up beside him.

"Annoyed Inquiry: Do you plan to stare into empty space indefinitely?"

Atton glowered, but didn't bother facing the droid.

"Equally annoyed response: you can either _can it_ or go back to the Ebon Hawk," he grumbled.

HK-47 didn't immediately reply. That surprised the scoundrel enough that he finally turned to look at him, just in time to hear the machine's cutting quip.

"Mocking Reminder: Master indicated her task would take time. Disrespectful Assessment: Your concern for her is unfounded. She is not in need of protection. And if she was, it is unlikely that you would be equal to the task."

"Is that right?"

"Unnecessary Reiteration: Yes."

Atton looked away, back out at the wild green expanse. He didn't share the droid's calm. In fact, he was certain something was dangerously amiss. It had almost eluded him, skimming off the top of his mind. He'd spent so much time of late learning to sense things through the Force that he'd lost track of his natural intuition – the one which had saved him a million times over.

He shook his head finally.

"No, there's definitely something wrong. She's in trouble."

"Placating Statement: Very well. If you insist on proceeding from that premise, then I will oblige you. Provided you agree to let me terminate any meatbags who get in our way."

Atton glanced at him impatiently.

"Whatever gets you in the mood," he said with a tired sigh. "Now get back to the ship and get Bao-Dur. I think we're going to need all the help we can get."

"Question: What are you going to do?"

The scoundrel shut his eyes for a moment, taking a long breath not unlike the kind he and the Exile sucked in when they meditated together. Then he pointed to the horizon, in the direction of the mercenary camp.

"I'm heading that way. Follow when you can."

HK-47's nasally voice bore just the faintest hint of concern.

"Very well, dumb one," he said, his metal frame creaking as he turned and bounded off.

Atton took off in a trot in the other direction – toward the disturbance. It didn't feel Sith or Jedi, or like anything which wielded the Force. But there were an awful lot of things in this galaxy that didn't require magic to be deadly.

As he ran, his mind's eye a collage of terrible outcomes, he thought not for the first time about what his companion meant to him. At first, he'd tried to pretend she was little more than his employer – a source of credits, and the owner of a sleek ship. After a time, he'd realized and admitted that she was his friend, the dearest and truest of his life.

He'd yet to make the next concession, though. Even when he slumbered in the deep and quiet night, he'd not give name to the thing inside him – the thing which taunted him with its gentleness, and ravaged him with its implications. His soul had been deaf to such sensations for as long as he could recall.

But these thoughts, naïve and pathetic and misguided as they were, would do his dear Jedi no good, he knew. So he pushed them aside and took longer strides, his lightsaber clanging against his leg each step.

He would save her. The way she'd saved him.

0oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0

"Statement: The dumb one requires your assistance."

Bao-Dur glanced up at him from flat on his back, forehead obscured by the conduit he was working on. He frowned just so slightly.

"Are you referring to Atton?" he asked calmly.

"Pained Clarification: Yes, Iridonian."

HK-47's entreaty sounded nonchalant to the engineer's ears, but there was something in the air which suggested the matter was serious. Perhaps it was Bao-Dur's infant link to the collective unconscious, awakened recently by the Exile. Perhaps it was, more specifically, the bond he shared with her, consecrated in the wreckage of blood and metal above Malachor, and strengthened by the friendship they'd shared these last months.

He slid out from underneath the conduit, standing.

"Where is he?"

"Answer: He was proceeding in the direction of the mercenary camp. He seems to believe Master is in danger."

"What kind of danger?"

HK-47 sighed.

"Exasperated Dismissal: I do not know. The longer we stand here discussing the matter, however, the more likely it is that Master and the dumb one will be terminated."

Bao-Dur blinked coolly, then glanced down the corridor. His first instinct was to seek Kreia's, Mical's, and Mira's aid.

He paused, though, not moving. Their assistance would indeed be of use if Atton and the Exile were in danger, but the truth was, he didn't trust them. Kreia was the crass, manipulative, twisted kind. And she'd gone out of her way to make Bao-Dur feel like a second-class being – so insignificant a speck in the cosmic design that he was to be referred to only in passing, and only as "the alien," a moniker uttered with such disdain.

Mical was polite enough, and certainly eager to do his part. And yet it was proven fact that he was sent by the Republic to spy. He claimed his allegiance was to the Exile, and that his reports to Carth Onasi were for appearances' sake. Bao-Dur wasn't certain he believed him. But more than that was Atton's distrust of the historian. The pilot had an instinct that the new arrival wasn't what he seemed, and Bao-Dur implicitly trusted his friend's judgment.

Mira claimed to be an ally, but her actions would indicate otherwise at times. She was deeply cynical and sarcastic, but not in the same way as Atton. Whereas his seemed to be a quirk, or a defense mechanism against the disappointments of living, hers was a kind of blunt weapon – a resignation that seemed to cry: being human is about doling out pain, and so I'll do my part to harm you.

G0-T0's untrustworthiness spoke for itself, and while Bao-Dur had an inexplicable sense that Visas meant the crew no harm, the Miraluka was still slumbering on a bed in the medical bay.

T3-M4 rolled into the garage, seemingly on his way to fix something.

Bao-Dur smiled slightly. If he could trust anyone, it was the astromech droid.

0oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0

Atton edged up the hill, certain that when he reached its peak and peered down, he'd find the Exile, and in some sort of predicament, no doubt – one which he feared he'd be ill-equipped to rescue her from. Heroics weren't his domain, even if he was starting to make a bad habit of them in the Jedi's company.

Sure enough, when his head was high enough to look down over the slope's other side, he was greeted by the sight of Prin, the Exile – no, _his_ Exile – cornered by no less than a dozen mercenaries, a sundry spectrum that included Mandalorians and humans and Niktos and Trandoshans. He hated that last species the most – a bunch of reptilian slavers with a moral compass inadequate for the power they wielded.

There was anger bubbling up in his chest as he watched them back Prin toward a pair of adjacent swoop bikes. But immediately he realized that the emotion wouldn't do him, nor her, any bit of good. He shut his eyes, releasing his bitter musings into the Force.

A moment later, as the Exile was flush against one of the swoop bikes, her blue lightsaber posed defensively in front of her, Atton ignited his own weapon, holding the hilt hand over hand as he leapt down from up high, driving his viridian blade through the top of the skull of one of the Trandoshans as he landed.

The stunned mercenary died instantly, crumpling to the ground in an undignified heap. Atton had to press his boot into the corpse's rib cage, in order to get enough leverage to yank his glowing blade from the man's cranium. Then he spun around immediately and stabbed one of the Mandalorians through the chest.

Prin didn't miss a beat, capitalizing on the mercenaries' divided attentions. She slashed one of the humans across the stomach, then ducked a scything blow from a Mandalorian's vibroblade; one swift swing in retaliation and the warrior's helmeted head was rolling in the grass.

She glanced at Atton, and even in the midst of all the mayhem, she couldn't help but appreciate the fluid grace of his movements, the mastery he displayed of a weapon he'd not long been using. It was further evidence of his sharp mind.

Three more rushed toward her. She extended her left hand, using the Force to push two of them away, the men flopping onto their backs, and with her right hand, she dealt the third a vicious blow, her blue saber severing the man's torso from his legs.

A few feet away, Atton sliced a Trandoshan across the chest, and then in the same motion – as a Mandalorian raised his sword to strike – whirled his lightsaber behind his back, switching to his off-hand and smoothly lancing the mercenary through the heart.

It wasn't but seconds later that the whole thing was over.

The mercenaries lay in a ragged jumble at the feet of the Jedi and her pilot. Slowly, as if somehow afraid that the corpses might reanimate, Prin turned her head to meet Atton's eyes. He looked concerned, relieved, annoyed, and some other things.

"You all right?" he asked, the tiniest of tremors in his voice. "I mean, you're not hurt, are you?"

She shook her head, clipping her lightsaber back to her belt. Then she smiled mildly, gratefully.

"No, I'm fine. Thanks to you."

The knowledge that she was unharmed seemed to set something off inside of him.

"Damn right, thanks to me!" he snapped. "You could've gotten yourself killed!"

Prin watched him for a moment, surprised by the intensity of the accusation and by the residual terror which flickered in his eyes. As a Jedi, someone trained to perceive the feelings and intentions of sentient beings, she thought he was scared of losing her. As a woman, a human being with a heart and soul and her own desires, she thought – no, _hoped_ – she knew why.

But this wasn't the moment to discuss the matter, this carnage of the mind – not here at the center of a circle of broken bodies.

"You can keep yelling at me and being cute when we get back to the ship. For now, I think we'd better get out of here," she said.

Atton sighed, nodding begrudgingly.

It was only after the Exile smiled her thanks and started to walk that his brow furrowed, and he mumbled softly, "Cute?"

0oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0

Bao-Dur led HK-47 and T3-M4 through the tallish Dantooine grass, lightsaber hilt held loosely in his right hand. He could sense that Prin and Atton weren't far now, but he'd no notion if they were in danger or not. It was a good sign, at least, that they were alive.

The Iridonian wasn't prepared when, his entire focus given to the search for his friends, a small rocket whizzed past his ear, winding around until it struck HK-47 around the hip joints, exploding, setting off a brilliant burst of sparks as his body blew apart into two pieces, his legs hurtling forward over Bao-Dur's head, torso blowing back and tumbling to a stop.

Almost too shell-shocked to defend himself, the engineer narrowly avoided grim death, dropping down onto his stomach but an instant before a second rocket sailed through the clearing. Things went from bad to worse after that.

As if from oblivion, no fewer than fifteen mercenaries, most of them human and two Mandalorian, appeared from over the ridge in the near distance. For a moment – just one – Bao-Dur regretted his decision not to bring Mira, Kreia, and Mical. But even now, outnumbered beyond imagination, he thought he was right not to trust them.

Glancing back at T3, a foot or so behind him, he demanded in a harsh whisper, "Go back to the Khoonda compound and find Zherron or Berun! Tell them to send help!"

The small droid beeped dutifully, spinning around in the other direction and scurrying away as fast as his motor would carry him.

In the time it took to bark the order, the mercenaries – rushing forward – had already breached half the distance between them and Bao-Dur.

He was barely obscured in the grass now, and it was clear that he had a choice to make: fight, surrender, or run.

He decided he'd spent enough time running.

Pushing himself up off the ground, he planted his feet firmly in it. Then he ignited his lightsaber, the cyan blade glowing as held it at his side, angled down.

His thoughts drifted as they were prone to do to that crippled ship drifting through the bloodied skies above Malachor, his eyes seeking the Exile's as he awaited the order he knew she had to give. Then, like now, he hadn't wanted to do the deed. But there's deeds in life which must be done, and you'll often find they're yours to do.

The blaster fire erupted at last, and Bao-Dur begin to bat away the incoming bolts with his lightsaber. Some of them bounced back at their shooters, felling three of the mercenaries within seconds.

That good fortune didn't last long, however. Though his instincts with the blade were keen, he lacked the experience to fully capitalize on them. His movements with the weapon were smooth, but he wasn't trained to be efficient and his defenses were flawed.

He grunted, his knee buckling beneath him as it was grazed by a blaster shot. His resolve didn't falter, though. He continued deflecting the incoming fire, until his attackers were finally close enough for him to take an aggressive tact.

It caught several of the mercenaries off-guard when he descended upon them with a graceful leap, crudely slashing and thrusting until a severed hand lay on the ground, a human body crumpled beside it, and another man's arm dangled from his shoulder, just barely hanging on by a few nerves and tendons. Bao-Dur was kind enough to end his agony a moment later.

Despite the devastation he'd doled out in those seconds, though, he succumbed not longer after as the hilt of a vibroblade slammed into the back of his head, knocking him to the ground, where he writhed on his belly, disoriented and groaning as his lightsaber switched off.

A swift boot to the ribs turned him onto his back, and with a grunt, he glanced up into the cold eyes of the culprit, a scarred, bearded man with a thinning crop of black-gray hair.

"Jedi scum!" the man exclaimed, kicking him again.

Bao-Dur swallowed another groan, wanting to deny his assailant the satisfaction.

"What do you want?" he asked hoarsely.

"I want to know what you were doing in the Enclave ruins. I want to know why your leader is trying to make nice with us, while she works for Zherron behind our backs! Azkul will _not_ be pleased when he discovers that."

The other mercenaries were scowling down at Bao-Dur too, and he wondered if they might lose their patience. It was an easy thing to squeeze a trigger.

"She is trying to avert conflict," the Iridonian said quietly. "Not that you have much interest in avoiding needless killing."

He thought that might earn him another kick, but all it produced was a deeper glower from the man.

"There's no such thing as needless killing, when war and blood are the last good currency."

"Then you do not have a soul, as the General does."

"What were you doing down in the Enclave?" the man asked again, more calmly this time. "If you were there for the other Jedi – the old man – then you've already failed. He'll be on his way to Nar Shaddaa in two days. It only cost us three men to take him, and he'll fetch at least 50,000 credits. Seems to me a good deal."

Bao-Dur regarded him evenly, though there was something stirring in the pit of his stomach.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you won't be alive to pass it on."

Time seemed to slow after those words. The man's hand reached for his holstered blaster, and then his arm extended, Bao-Dur's eyes glued to the weapon's barrel as it came to bear on him, and it felt to the Iridonian as if his fear might outlast the span of the universe itself, each moment everlasting inside this temporal crawl.

He thought it was a rather undignified way to die. But at least it was in service of salvation's cause, not war's like if he'd vanished at Malachor.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," a voice called out from behind them.

The man and his minions turned sharply, training their collective might on the Exile and Atton, who stood a mere fifteen feet from them, lightsabers held unlit at their sides.

It wasn't beyond the man to feel unsettled. He, though a hardened criminal with a trail of blood and bones littered in his shadow, could feel fear edging up inside of him.

Azkul had told him that the Exile would be taken care of. Had he simply underestimated her? Unlikely. Azkul was no fool. And that left one other explanation: the calculating leader had sent the man's squad to test the Jedi and her companions. Azkul was clearly willing to sacrifice some underlings to allow the Exile to prove her mettle.

"Let him go," Atton growled.

Prin blinked calmly, trying to look past the bearded man to see the Iridonian.

"This need not end in bloodshed," she said.

With something of a snarl, the man shook his head.

"I'm afraid you're wrong about that."

And then the shooting started.

Atton and the Exile were a blur for the mercenaries, whirling and jumping and dodging and cutting, carving the men apart like butcher droids in a slaughter house. And the mercenaries were so preoccupied with the pair, that they didn't notice when Bao-Dur found his feet behind them, reigniting his lightsaber and driving the blade through one of the men's backs.

There weren't but four left after a few violent moments.

Prin cut down one of them, Bao-Dur another. Atton took care of the third, but was blindsided by the fourth, who in desperation lowered his shoulder and threw his weight into the scoundrel. His feet disappearing out from under him, Atton found himself in the air, teetering perilously on the man's back before falling helplessly to the Dantooine floor, his head bouncing off the ground.

Bao-Dur stepped up to fell the last mercenary.

After that, Atton's groan was all Prin could hear. Her weapon was tossed aside as she crouched down beside him, reaching out to grip his arm, mouth turned down at the corners in a concerned frown.

"Atton? Are you okay?" she asked, gently coaxing him to turn, so she could see his face.

The pilot just groaned again, eyes blinking as if to unblur hazy vision. Everything felt out of sync, out of focus, and it sounded to his ears as if Prin were shouting from a distance, not hovering over him like she was.

The sun shining over her shoulder cast a warm glow on her face, illuminating the worry there, and though his brain felt as though it were rattling around his head, he managed one cogent thought: he'd never seen a more beautiful sight.

"What?" he mumbled.

"I asked if you were okay, but I think you just gave me my answer," she said worriedly. "Did you hit your head?"

He nodded just slightly, sighing a moment later when he felt her hand threading through his hair. She was just checking for bumps, he knew, but he fought through his pain to savor the moment.

When he winced, she knew she'd found the contusion.

"Stop that," he grumbled.

She ignored him, glancing up at Bao-Dur, who looked a bit frazzled, but otherwise all right.

"Can you go back to the Khoonda building and get – "

"Don't even try it," Atton interrupted dismissively, springing off one elbow to sit up, though he was clearly shaky in doing it. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are," Bao-Dur retorted dubiously.

The glib rejoinder only emboldened Atton, who decided it was a matter of principle now to prove his companions wrong. Nothing to it, he thought. Just stand up – easy as that.

Bracing his palms on the ground, he forced himself to his feet, wobbling only slightly once standing. The Exile's hand was on his elbow, and though his vision swam, he could make out her disapproving expression.

"Atton, take it easy," she chided.

"Get off my back, would you? You should be worrying about Bao-Dur, not me. Seemed like he was the one who took the ass-kicking."

Prin felt a rush of guilt. Her scoundrel was only trying to divert her attention, but he nevertheless had a point. She turned her scrutinizing gaze on the Iridonian.

"_Are_ you all right?" she asked.

Bao-Dur smiled just barely.

"I'm fine, General. My people have thicker skin than yours." He took note when his human friends both frowned. "I mean that literally, not as a boast."

"Right," Atton drawled lightly, even as his face rippled at the effort it took to keep from grimacing. "Let's just get back to the Ebon Hawk, okay? I'm getting tired of all the dead bodies."

Prin eyed him carefully.

"Atton, I think you have a concussion. Are you sure you can – "

He met her eyes defiantly, mouth turned up at one corner in a lopsided grin that kindled things inside her.

"I'm perfectly fine. I just hope you two can keep up with me," he said.

Bao-Dur couldn't help the tiny smirk that formed or the amused breath he let out. Stubbornness was perhaps his companion's worst quality, and his best too.

Prin sighed in resignation, nodding, and only just then noticed HK-47's upper half lying in the grass. His orange eyes were dulled.

"HK," she murmured, eyes widening.

The Iridonian crouched down and hauled the metal frame from the ground, balancing it on one shoulder. He glanced at Prin reassuringly.

"Not to worry. I can fix him."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, General," he replied easily, stopping to pick up the droid's other half once the trio began walking.

The Exile made certain to stay close to Atton, watching him, while Bao-Dur gave them a wide berth. The pilot's steps were lumbering and graceless, and he'd occasionally careen to one side, but for the most part he hid his pain and disorientation and unbalance well. For a while, at least.

Right around the time they could finally make out the Khoonda compound as a dot in the distance, Atton finally faltered, raising a hand to his forehead just moments before he listed to one side and started to fall.

Prin was there in an instant, laboriously catching his larger body, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other hooking his near arm. He leaned back the other way, though, as if to pull away from her grasp, his eyes glazed over.

"Hey, it's okay. Calm down, Atton," she admonished softly. "It's all right. I've got you."

He stopped struggling after that, the gentle tone of voice pacifying him, and Prin clumsily lowered him until she was on her knees, Atton's body held against her. He didn't seem particularly lucid anymore. His eyes fluttered open and closed over the next seconds, small grunts and groans escaping him.

She glanced up at Bao-Dur.

"Get help," she said, grim and concerned. "He's not going any further."

The Iridonian smiled reassuringly, gesturing to the near distance. She followed his eyes to find Berun Modrul and three militiamen approaching, T3-M4 keeping pace with them.

"They aren't as prompt as one would hope," Bao-Dur observed.

Prin glanced back down at Atton, hearing him whimper. Her grip on him tightened with one arm, while the other hand brushed his hair. And as she held him, she had a moment of epic clarity: she'd manipulate the fabric of space-time if it would protect him, if it would make him feel cared for.

Bao-Dur walked forward to meet Berun, as the Exile pressed a kiss to Atton's head.

0oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0

As he slowly crawled out of sleep's black trenches, he was surrounded by familiar voices in the midst of a contentious exchange.

"You were an imbecile not to seek my aid," Kreia's angry voice gnarled. "The Exile might have _perished_ for your idiocy!"

"I do not regret my decision," Bao-Dur replied.

"Then you are even more inadequate than I'd surmised, _Alien_."

"Enough!"

That was Prin's voice. Even furious, it was beautiful.

"You will not address him in that way," she said. "He is not inadequate, or an imbecile, or some 'alien.' He is our friend and a valuable member of this crew. You are going to treat him as such if you wish to remain with us."

Kreia's voice was dangerously low and held a hint of mocking.

"Oh, is that so, _Exile_? You seem to believe that it is I who is in need of you, and not the other way around. Let me assure you, you are mistaken. Are you so blinded by emotion that you believe yourself capable of confronting the Sith without my guidance?"

There was a pause before she continued with a brutal, callow sneer, "If you would trade my counsel for the love of a _fool_, then you have already failed me."

Love?

Love.

Atton knew what love was once. He'd forgotten through the years, filled with dark deeds and soul-gnawing emptiness. But as soon as the cold witch uttered the word, he realized that this new thing inside him – the feeling which had replaced the void within when he first laid eyes on the Exile – was indeed, unequivocally, _love_.

It was Prin's voice he heard again after that, proud and defiant.

"I have no desire to make that choice, Kreia. I value your teachings greatly. But were I ever entreated to select between you and Atton, I would choose Atton every time, without regret. And if you do not understand why, then perhaps it is _you_ who has already failed _me_."

"Insolence!" the old woman barked.

The sound of footsteps. Kreia's presumably. Then silence for a time.

Prin's voice, calmer, quieter – more like itself – was the next to be heard.

"Bao-Dur."

"Yes, General?"

She paused.

"I understand why you didn't ask for Kreia's help. But why not Mira, or Mical?"

"I don't trust them either."

"Why not?"

"I… suppose it isn't anything against _them_ necessarily," he said, though he sounded unsure about it. "The truth is, General, I don't trust _anyone _besides you and Atton."

His Remote beeped.

"And you, of course."

The Exile thought to respond, but didn't get the chance.

Atton grunted softly, the lids of his eyes finally peeling back.

He was in the infirmary in the Khoonda compound, he realized, as Prin's and Bao-Dur's faces came into focus. Hers bore a smile as she sat down on the edge of the bed, the Iridonian standing over shoulder.

"Hey," she said quietly, as if afraid the sound might hurt him.

Atton smirked sleepily.

"Was that the old witch I heard?" he mumbled.

She stiffened almost imperceptibly – imperceptibly to all but Atton, that is – at his mention of her. She just smiled and shrugged, though.

"I thought her good vibes might help heal you."

"Funny," Atton replied grumpily, rolling his eyes.

Then he glanced up at Bao-Dur.

"I'm glad you're all right," the Iridonian offered.

"Yeah, about that – care to explain how you're the one getting roughed up by twelve guys, but _I'm_ the one lying in a hospital bed?"

"Like I said, thicker skin."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Prin interjected, a mischievous glint in her eye as she smiled at her pilot. "I think Atton's pretty thick around the head."

Bao-Dur released an approximation of a chuckle – more of a heavy breath let out through curved lips – and Atton fixed them both with a mock-scowl.

"You think that's funny, huh?" he groused. "Man. A guy takes a bump on the skull and suddenly everyone turns into a cantina comic."

The precious pout of his lips and the embarrassed, forlorn quality in his voice crawled underneath her skin, filling her with numerous urges she was hard-pressed to act against. One of them proved too difficult to suppress, and she leaned forward to affectionately push some hair back from his face.

Bao-Dur watched the pair curiously, and when he saw the scoundrel smile drunkenly, he began to feel as though he were intruding on something.

"I'm going to go work on fixing HK," he said, taking a step back from the bed, his Remote following him. "We may need his help to deal with Azkul."

Prin glanced back at him, nodding. But there was a hint of apprehension, and perhaps regret, on her face too.

"Good idea. But… try to avoid Kreia, if you can. We'd all do well to choose our words more carefully from now on."

Bao-Dur held her gaze for a long moment, but she could gleam no information from him. He didn't nod or shake his head or smile or frown; he just looked at her for a few seconds' time, then departed the infirmary.

When Prin's eyes fell back on Atton, she was surprised to find him watching her intently, brow furrowed in concentration. She'd seen that look on his face before, usually when he was playing Pazaak, but she'd never been its focus – or if she had, she hadn't caught him.

"What?" she asked.

"Uh… nothing. I just – um… nothing."

Prin frowned, but it was more for effect than anything else.

"You can't just say 'nothing.'"

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

"Because it wasn't nothing. You wanted to say something to me."

Atton smirked evasively.

"You think you know everything, don't you, darlin'?"

"Not everything," she replied softly, reaching down to smooth out the fabric of his shirt. "Just you."

Atton swallowed when she didn't retract her hand, leaving it to rest on his chest. He wondered if she knew what she did to him, if it was intentional, or if he was just a casualty of her endearing naivety. Either way, he couldn't help the mild shudder that went through him.

This time, her frown was real.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said, releasing a self-deprecating sigh as he risked covering her hand with his.

It brought him quite a degree of satisfaction when she made no move to pull away, and when he felt the tiny tremor he'd experienced reciprocated by the proud, dauntless Jedi. Being human was the great equalizer.

She was trapped in a sense, her hand clutched against him, and as he peered up into her eyes – more green than brow now, to his amazement – she appeared more vulnerable than she ever had, as if by sheer will alone he had the power to save her or destroy her.

"I did want to ask you something," he told her quietly.

She'd have murmured secrets in a million tongues, if that was what he wanted.

The ache in his head begin to worsen, but he was singularly focused.

"On Korriban…" he began, careful to keep his voice gentle. "When you came out of that cavern, you looked… well, you looked like you'd just gone ten rounds with a mynock inside a locked closet."

She looked down, the hand on his chest unconsciously clenching, gripping his shirt. He left his own hand overtop it.

"I'll – I mean, it's okay if you don't want to talk about it. I just thought you might want to, you know? You looked kind of shook up."

Prin nodded absently, but Atton couldn't gauge anything from her expression. Her hold on his shirt slackened a bit, though, so he waited patiently with the hope that she might answer, beginning a faint caress of her hand with the pads of his fingers.

She did finally speak, after a while.

"Do you ever think about the choices you've made? Not whether you should have made them, but about their implications."

Atton shook his head gently.

"I'm… not sure I follow," he said.

"I suppose what I mean is, when we make a choice, whether right or wrong as dictated by our beliefs, there's a slot it fills in the Force's design. And the view of that design is a matter of perspective. You see, at a certain point, one can easily discern whether choices have led to good or to evil. But if one travels far enough into the future, then all choices can appear all things."

Atton blinked thoughtfully.

"So, you're saying that it doesn't matter what we do. Every choice is good _and_ evil."

"From a certain point of view, yes."

The pilot shook his head disbelievingly.

"Sweetheart, if you really believed that, we wouldn't have spent two days finding passage off Nar Shaddaa for that refugee dame."

She smiled slightly, meeting his eyes for just a moment before looking away again. He barely noticed when she turned her hand up and interlocked their fingers.

"You're right. I don't believe that," she said, sighing. "And I think that was the point of the whole thing."

"I don't understand."

"Once you realize that your choices, whatever their motives, can lead to places both light and dark, that is when you are truly tested. I had to face a lot of things I've done, and some things I'll still have to. And the temptation is to give in to apathy – for if all paths intersect eventually, then it would seem not to matter which one you walk."

She glanced up at Atton, forehead just slightly crinkled, eyes dark. He thought about all the things he'd do to make those eyes grow bright again.

"But apathy is death," she said, her voice wavering as her gaze turned down. "Or so I'm told."

Her bottom lip quivered, and the sight alone was poison to the scoundrel's heart. If he could have, he'd have shed his skin and slipped into hers, just to bear all the pain that broke through.

Prin blinked back wetness, desperate to hide it behind her lashes. But her pilot wouldn't allow it. She felt his hand on her face – first on her forehead, brushing aside some brown wisps, then on her cheek, erasing something with his fingers, and finally her chin, which he took firmly in his grasp, tilting her head up until she'd no choice but to meet his gaze.

She'd expected his eyes to be full of confusion and pity, or to have erected a façade of false disinterest as was his way. But instead, she saw in those brown optics how utterly willing he was to give her _anything_, and she thought about how a man couldn't fake that.

"Whatever you saw there is gone now," he said. "And all that stuff you have left to do, well… none of it's gonna be done alone."

Prin could drown in those eyes.

"How do you know?"

"Because you don't have a choice anymore, honey. You're stuck with me wherever you go."

She thought it was strange that their faces were getting closer, when his head was still lying on the pillow. Was he pulling her toward him, or was she doing it herself? She decided she didn't care.

Atton's lips were softer than she'd imagined, and they moved against hers with such tenderness. It wasn't the sort of kiss little girls fawn over in holo-vids, or the kind that makes a wife step out on her husband. It was just gentle and endearingly tentative and so full of the things that mattered, and she couldn't suppress a whimper when he slightly deepened it.

Prin wasn't very experienced with this sort of undertaking, but she moved her mouth against his as best she was able, and was eventually rewarded with the softest of groans. She felt a thrill rush through her at hearing it.

When they parted, she was surprised by how mild his grin was. It didn't match hers. But then she noticed the pain lines across his forehead, and immediately she felt shamed. Of course he wasn't bouncing around the room – he had a concussion.

"It still hurts, huh?"

Atton looked about to lie, but then he nodded, which earned him a sympathetic frown.

"Close your eyes," she said.

"Hmm?"

"Close your eyes, darling," she soothingly petitioned, thinking how nice the last word felt on her tongue.

Atton complied.

A moment later, he felt her slender hand moving through his hair again. He was loathe to admit it, but he couldn't remember a better feeling in his life, and when those small fingers began to alternate between combing through his brown mop and trying to smooth away the lines on his forehead, he could feel the galaxy receding to a single point in the putrid distance.

At some point he fell asleep, but she kept up her ministrations anyway. Even in sleep, he'd need to feel cared for.

0oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0

Bao-Dur slipped the hydrospanner into the opening between HK-47's torso and legs, resealing a frayed connection.

It was tough going, but he was reasonably certain the acerbic droid would make it. The computer core was completely intact, and the damage to the frame was surprisingly minimal. Whoever constructed him did so with durability in mind.

The sun had finally fallen an hour or so ago. Dantooine's days were long – about forty-two hours. That made the nights a bit eerie to most. There weren't a lot of creatures who preferred dimness and darkness, and Bao-Dur had lived enough to know he wasn't among them.

He glanced up just briefly when he heard footsteps in the corridor. By the weight of the sound of boot on metal, he could tell that it was Mical.

The historian didn't seem to be of a mind to say much when he entered the garage. He just stood there for a time, leaning on one leg and then the other.

"Was there something you needed?" Bao-Dur asked.

It took a short time, but Mical answered.

"I wished to know if I've offended you in some way."

"Offended? No."

"Because if I have, I would make efforts to rectify that."

Bao-Dur shook his head, screwing a bolt in underneath HK's abdomen.

"It's not necessary. You haven't."

"May I ask, then, why you did not inform me when the Exile was in danger? If I've not done anything to offend you, then your reasoning eludes me."

"I'm rather busy right now," Bao-Dur replied, not bothering to look up.

Mical took in a long breath, letting it out slowly. He shook his head, with just a hint of the frustration he often purported not to feel. Then he turned as if to leave, but he didn't go anywhere. He stared ahead for a time in contemplation.

"The Exile is training you to be a Jedi, yes?"

Bao-Dur stopped momentarily, blinking before switching on a fusion cutter and searing a busted stabilizer off of HK's leg.

"Yes, she is," he said.

"As I understand it through my studies of Jedi assimilation, when an Iridonian is taken as a padawan, he experiences dreams conjured by the Force for an undefined span."

"Read that in a holocron, did you?"

"Some time ago. Yes."

Bao-Dur nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing. He secured a loose bolt on HK's side.

Mical had started to leave when the engineer spoke again, his horned head angled toward the bulkhead, away from his companion. His voice, calm and neutral in nearly its every utterance, was doubly so in this instance.

"I seldom remember most of them. They're lost to me in the morning," he said. "Except for the one about three nights back."

"What was that one?"

"I dreamt I was back on Iridonia in the ancient times. Before there were hyperdrives and Jedi. I was running through a canyon near a river of acid. I could feel the heat coming from it. It smelled like things were burning. I was being chased by someone, but I didn't know who – or what. I was just running, and I remember knowing that I wouldn't get away.

"Around one of the bends, I saw a man wearing a cloak, holding something small – like a lightsaber. I didn't get a good look, though. It could have been something else. When he saw me, he took off running. I was still running myself from whatever was chasing me, but since I was headed in the same direction as the man, I suppose he thought _I_ was chasing _him_.

"Somewhere, I must have lost him. Must have. Because I couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, and I couldn't make out the cloak – not with all the ash and fire around. I knew that I'd been meant to talk to him, to follow him wherever he ended up. I was bucking the Force's will by stopping.

"I stood there for a while, looking down at the acid, orange-red, flowing to wherever it went. Then I looked back to where I last saw the man, and I noticed some light up there in the distance. But I still didn't move. Honestly, I couldn't say why. I stood there looking at the light – it was cyan, like my blade – and I waited for the thing that was coming. For the thing that was chasing me."

"What was it?"

Bao-Dur blinked, brown eyes gone green.

"It was the man with the cloak," he said.

* * *

**FIN**

* * *


End file.
